The Threepenny Opera As Performed By Potted Plants
Posted: Sat Oct 13, 2018 8:45 am
((James continued from The Science Of Selling Yourself))
((Private between Crash & myself for a tidbit))
"Morgan!"
By now, James had lost all concern for clandestinity. His voice had grown cracked and strained from hours of desperate shouting. He'd been circling the chapel ever since his unwelcome morning jog, starting with the hopes of stumbling upon his companion silently, now reduced to screaming like a madman through the dark. It didn't help that his visibility had been reduced to not three feet in front of him in the rain-curtained witching hour (or hours rather, but he neither knew nor cared of the exact measure). For all he knew he was leagues away from the chapel by now and following some circuit around nothing more but a few trees. He was lost, assuming whatever he'd been before had been to some degree "found".
"Morg!"
And with each unanswered scream, the feeling grew that he was calling upon a corpse. He had no way of knowing if Morgan had even escaped the messy death by detonation. And if she had, what then? She was stronger than him by far, he knew that, but she was unarmed. Unless that lint roller had been laced with arsenic, which he doubted, she may as well be dead anyway. The cheap thing seemed like it could barely pick up lint. But here he was with an undeserved revolver shoved between his waist and belt. He'd risked both their lives to get it. It seemed Morgan was the one made to pay his debt.
As if summoned by this thought, fatigue finally overtook him. He let his bags fall to the ground which they met with a muddy slap, then settled against a tree himself. He ran a shaky hand through his tangled hair and across his soaked brow. His eyes wearily scanned the black fog he was engulfed in, then finally landed on the outline of the bag behind him.
A familiar craving gnawed at the back of his head. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, his hands were dipped in the front pocket and retrieving the pack and lighter. They felt dirty in his hands. It was like a final disrespect to Morgan. But his hands were shaking worse than ever, and oh God did he need to light one up right now...
A noise in the nearby underbrush sent James to his feet. His hands quickly and clumsily to the revolver pressed against his back as gravity did its noble work on his discarded cigarettes. Even as he cocked back the hammer and waved the thing at the empty air, he knew his fear was unfounded. He replaced the gun to find himself with empty hands.
"...Fuck"
James lowered himself to a crouch and blindly scoured the mire for the telltale rectangles that would finally give him his relief.
((Private between Crash & myself for a tidbit))
"Morgan!"
By now, James had lost all concern for clandestinity. His voice had grown cracked and strained from hours of desperate shouting. He'd been circling the chapel ever since his unwelcome morning jog, starting with the hopes of stumbling upon his companion silently, now reduced to screaming like a madman through the dark. It didn't help that his visibility had been reduced to not three feet in front of him in the rain-curtained witching hour (or hours rather, but he neither knew nor cared of the exact measure). For all he knew he was leagues away from the chapel by now and following some circuit around nothing more but a few trees. He was lost, assuming whatever he'd been before had been to some degree "found".
"Morg!"
And with each unanswered scream, the feeling grew that he was calling upon a corpse. He had no way of knowing if Morgan had even escaped the messy death by detonation. And if she had, what then? She was stronger than him by far, he knew that, but she was unarmed. Unless that lint roller had been laced with arsenic, which he doubted, she may as well be dead anyway. The cheap thing seemed like it could barely pick up lint. But here he was with an undeserved revolver shoved between his waist and belt. He'd risked both their lives to get it. It seemed Morgan was the one made to pay his debt.
As if summoned by this thought, fatigue finally overtook him. He let his bags fall to the ground which they met with a muddy slap, then settled against a tree himself. He ran a shaky hand through his tangled hair and across his soaked brow. His eyes wearily scanned the black fog he was engulfed in, then finally landed on the outline of the bag behind him.
A familiar craving gnawed at the back of his head. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, his hands were dipped in the front pocket and retrieving the pack and lighter. They felt dirty in his hands. It was like a final disrespect to Morgan. But his hands were shaking worse than ever, and oh God did he need to light one up right now...
A noise in the nearby underbrush sent James to his feet. His hands quickly and clumsily to the revolver pressed against his back as gravity did its noble work on his discarded cigarettes. Even as he cocked back the hammer and waved the thing at the empty air, he knew his fear was unfounded. He replaced the gun to find himself with empty hands.
"...Fuck"
James lowered himself to a crouch and blindly scoured the mire for the telltale rectangles that would finally give him his relief.